30 Days of Lovin'
by NeonCharlie
Summary: I took up a challenge of 30 days of Johnlock goodness, a Drabble per day.
1. Holding Hands

I decided to _write _myself out of laziness. So I took this 30 day challenge on Tumblr: post/31442590860/ericandys-30-day-otp-challenge

Day 1: Holding Hands

* * *

The nearly mournful, dulcet tones of a violin and its skilled master faded into a fast, heated, one could almost say sensuous tune that carried across quiet hum of 221b Baker Street. The bow danced rapidly across the silvery strings, each note filled with suppressed desire and longing, and its player arching away from it with a buzzing enthusiasm. His bow began to still and finally slowed to a stop, a long, sated note ringing in the flat.

An outline stood starkly against the bleak greyness of the overcast sky, each thick curl and lean limb of its owner's equally lean form (in a bathrobe, no less) defined against the window frame. One arm held the violin's neck gently, the other poised as if to start another ardent melody. His lips pursed slowly in thought, his robe fluttering lightly at his slender ankles.

"You might as well ask, John. Your hesitance is... Irritating."

John fumbled a bit with his tea at having been called out. He really shouldn't be surprised this far into his new life with Sherlock, he thought fleetingly, of course his all-deducing flatmate deduced the thought out of his mind, the deducing... sod. Usually, he found his brilliance simply that, brilliant, but today, it was... Well, it was rather peevish.

"It's not... It's just... Well..."

"Out with it, John."

"Irene? Really? Still on her?" John forced out, sounding more exasperated and upset than he'd like to admit.

Sherlock turned to him, dark curls swinging lightly.

"And why in the world would it be of consequence to you?" A light frown set itself on his lips.

John opened his mouth for a biting reply, but stopped for a moment. Why _did _it matter? Because he was worried for Sherlock's well-being? Well, he always was; he _had_ been the one to force his flatmate to eat and sleep and enforce the three-nicotine-patches-only rule and such. And yes, he was concerned with the emotional aspect of him, but after he'd lost contact with Irene after a three or four months, his urges to express himself via violin had begun to fade, taking John's distress over the matter with it. He knew Sherlock had taken up his violin on an impulse and thought that would be as fleeting as any other.

Then why? Perhaps it was the Woman herself. Yes, that must have been it. The Woman, with those cruel grey-blue eyes and perfect form, the way her slender, lithe body seduced every man she'd probably ever encountered, excepting no man, turning the head of even the most amazing, brilliant, beautiful man on the planet earth with one glimpse whereas he, John, couldn't even be spared a passing glance-

No, no, he was simply worried over Sherlock's health.

He looked back at his best friend, once again silhouetted by the the London skyline, violin in hand.

John sighed, resigning to the couch, not bothering to inquire about the epiphany Sherlock was evidently having. Grabbing the remote, he switched on the telly to chase his confusing thoughts from his straight-as-a-board mind. Colours flashed onto his face as he reclined into the familiarity of the cushions, sighing gently as the images lulled his mind from headache-material thoughts and irrational emotions.

The couch dipped under the added weight of his flatmate, closer, John noticed, than usual. He spared a look at the consulting detective's profile, a perplexed frown spreading over his face. Sherlock never watched the teley with him. He said the detective shows that John liked so were 'dull and predictable.' Ah well. To each his own.

Thirty minutes passed.

"I wasn't thinking of Irene," he stated simply, offering nothing else. "Also, it's quite clear it was the housekeeper. Look at her shoes! The scuffs are most prominent on the right side of her housecleaning shoes where she brushed against the wall, presumably avoiding the body, but are whiter than they started out; it's clear she bleached them after she was unsuccessful in keeping his blood from her foot wear. These detectives are useless." All the time he was speaking, his hand crept across the length of the cushion to reach John's. Each slim finger slipped between John's, curling themselves around his palm as if they were _made _to be there.

"And uh... Who, exactly, were you thinking of during that..." John cleared his throat, "Passionate tune?"

Sherlock merely stared into an advertisement of some granola bar, the corner of his mouth tipped upward mischeviously.


	2. Cuddles

Cloud whites smeared rolled on the endless blue, wisps curling and light. The plane constantly hummed below its passengers.

_What a pretty picture, _John thought. _The only good to this entire damned trip. _

Two weeks. Two _weeks _in absolute hell. Some rich, business owning American had read his blog and decided Sherlock Holmes was the man to go to for his crime, despite the _hundreds, _possibly _thousands _of bright private detectives that actually _lived _in his side of the pond. But no. Sherlock or nothing. And Sherlock, to his horror, _accepted, _dubbing it a seven.

They flew across the _At-bloody-lantic Ocean_ for a **_seven_**.

Needless to say, John was not pleased when he had to cancel dinner for the fifth time with Janet, with whom he only had a kiss to show for their two weeks of dating. Or was her name Lela? No matter, it had ended anyway.

"Would you like something to drink, sir?" a soft, distinctly American accent cut into his mind-rant. He looked away from the window to the flight attendant. She was pretty, in her late twenties, early thirties, perhaps. Soft strands of blonde hair fell to her slim shoulders, honey eyes twinkling slightly in the dim overhead lights.

John found himself smiling lightly in return.

"A spot of coffee would be wonderful," he answered gently. He watched her blush at the sound of his own accent.

_Like that do you?_

"How would you like it?" she queried, eyelashes batting against her pale cheeks.

"Black, no sugar, please."

She poured the steaming liquid into a plain ceramic mug, the cuffed blue corduroy sleeve slipping to expose the tender skin of her elegant wrists. Reaching over Sherlock, she handed him the mug, she bent so he could see a hint of white skin beneath her top.

John ran his tongue over his suddenly chapped lips.

"So, how long are you staying in Britain? That is what flight attendants do, isn't it? Stay for a night or two?"

A rosy blush bloomed on her cheeks, a shy smile finding it's way onto her full pink lips.

"Well," she began, but got no further as Sherlock's elbow intercepted the mug, spilling the dark liquid all over John's pants.

"Oh, dear, I am so sorry!" Sherlock gasped. "Here, let me help with that..." His fingers only succeeded in pushing more coffee onto John's trousers.

It was scalding.

John bit his lip in pain and frustration, white spots of fury appearing in his vision.

The flight attendant handed him a wad of towels to dab at the stain.

"Thank you," he spared her with what he hoped was a heartwarming smile.

Meanwhile, Sherlock grabbed some towels and pressed them against his pant's crotch, murmuring things like "Oh, sweet, I am so sorry" and such.

John ignored him and smiled a bit wider at the blonde, hoping he still had a chance at a small fling.

She blinked at him and smiled uncertainly back, eyes darting towards Sherlock who was now spouting endearments like some sort of love struck boyfriend.

John winced when she moved on without providing an address. He was going to wrap his hands around a certain consulting detective's oh-so-pretty neck and squeeze until those pretty little eyeballs of his popped.

Satisfied, Sherlock reclined back into his seat, pale eyelids fluttering closed, his fingers steepled together underneath his chin.

Moments later, his head dropped slightly towards John in his sleep. His hands fell to his well-fitting trousers, black curls leaning toward John until the entire head rested on his jumper's chest, no armrest present to impede Sherlock's unconscious attack on his person.

For a moment, John considered throwing him off his chest in a rude awakening. But... It wasn't entirely unpleasant, the comfortable weight against his breastbone. Besides, his hair looked so... Soft and curly and...

His hand moved of its own accord, if hesitantly, to Sherlock's hair, fingers interweaving tenderly. His finger pads brushed his scalp soothingly, lovingly-

A stray lock stood up between his fingers when he stopped. Lovingly?

Sherlock nudged his fingers in an attempt to urge his hand into motion.

A wide smile of general affection and amusement spread across his features.

Yeah... Lovingly.


	3. Movie Watching

Day 3: Watching a Movie

**A/N: **This one gets a bit risqué... Not quite Mature, definitely not NC-17, but a little past Teen... I would bump the rating up, to be safe, but this is probably going to be the only one. You've been warned.

* * *

A long, relieved sigh accompanied the heavenly feel of the couch cushion against John's back.

It had been a long day and night, what with Sherlock's 'experimental' bangs and thumps keeping him up. His only escape was surgery, it seemed, where, upon arrival, he nearly wept with the staggering amount of patients flooding through the doors in mass hysteria over an alleged break out of Strep throat. Six hours of taking temperatures and instructing for men and women alike to 'say ahhhh' had certainly taken its toll.

One thing was certain. No case meant a bored Sherlock, and a bored Sherlock meant an exhausted John.

Switching on the teley, he surfed the channels in search of something marginally satisfactory when a familiar title sequence flickered across the screen. Princess Bride, it read. It was one of Harry's favourites, and she had demanded they watch it every month or so. He fondly recalled she simply adored Buttercup and-

His lips tightened into a thin line at the thought. It was probably for the best to leave the unsettling childhood memories undisturbed.

Footsteps that could only belong to Sherlock sounded from their kitchen, presumably leaving behind his microscope and slides.

"Princess Bride? Harry's childhood favourite?" his deep baritone queried.

John nodded, eyes glued on their television set.

"Scoot over, there's more room yet for another on that couch," Sherlock motioned him to move from the middle of the couch.

Complying with a sigh, he relocated to the right of he couch. Sherlock seated himself thigh-to-thigh with his flatmate.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Would you mind moving to the left a bit?"

"Yes, I would mind," came the prompt answer without so much as a turn of the head.

"Of course you'd bloody mind," he muttered under his breath, his momentarily suppressed irritation from earlier rising.

The line of Sherlock's lip twitched upward the slightest bit in apparent amusement.

Five, four, three, two, one... There, he thought as John's lips let air through them as well as his need to strangle the consulting detective, anger under wraps.

Moments passed and long, pale appendages laid themselves on John's jean-clad knee. He pursed his lips for a moment but continued to watch the movie.

The hand began to move.

It was hot and light against his leg as it stroked his inner thigh in rhythmic, even caresses, fingers gripping the lining of its thick seam. Every time it came back down from his knee, the hand ventured a bit lower to the sacred valley of between-John's-legs. There was a bit more pressure asserted, and John winced at the erection he was speedily getting.

When he and Sherlock began... Dating? That was so crude a word, but he supposed it covered the essentials. When the two began dating, John introduced his virgin boyfriend to the wonders of sex. Since then, it was sex when Sherlock felt like it, whether John wanted to or not. It was quite pleasant, really, he never really minded. But today, he was just so damnably tired and, well... Princess Bride was on. Couldn't a man watch the entirety of his childhood memory without being sexually assaulted?

"Sherlock?" he asked, his voice sounding forced between his clenched teeth.

"Yes, John?"

"Hand OFF. We are NOT about to rut during Princess Bride!"

"John," Sherlock turned to him, mock innocence on his handsome features, "I wouldn't dream of it!"

His hand said another thing entirely as it finally reached his pant's crotch, fingers petting him gently but possessively through the thick material of his jeans. John suppressed a shudder and moan, furious at his body for betraying him. He will watch Princess Bride, dammit!

Nimble fingers moved over his fly, palm cupping John fully. John let out a hiss of pleasure, but recovered by slapping the offending hand away from the family jewels.

"No hand jobs during the movie or I swear you will never top again," John threatened.

That'll show you, John thought smugly when Sherlock withdrew his assault.

His triumph was short lived, however.

A mere five minutes later as Inigo Montoya joined the quest, Sherlock's hands wandered yet again, fingers tightening around the hair at his nape as the other made sensuous circles on his jumper. Lips found John's ear, low, hypnotising purring. Latin purring that not only crossed the line that any mere mortal could bear but kicked it quite roughly in the arse.

But John was no mere mortal. Doctor John Hamish Watson was a soldier who went to war in Afghanistan and made it back, doing battle for every day with the manic storm that was Sherlock Holmes.

He would not give in. He would ignore the oh-so-delicious attentions of his flatmate/boyfriend/co worker.

A tongue dragged against his neck, but John's face kept stony. His mouth vibrated in a growl on John's neck, and he shivered involuntarily, but recovered and was once again indifferent. No, nope, here was no way John could possibly be convinced.

His flatmate brought out the big guns. He leaned further into John's chest and whispered heavy, breathless begging, the thing he knew excited John the most. No cigar.

At long last, the consulting detective sat back, still on John's lap. The doctor nearly cried out in relief. He would never tell Sherlock, of course, but any more begging and rubbing and he would have thrown him onto the couch and ravaged him.

A look of utter perplexity dominated Sherlock's usually pompous and otherwise knowing face.

"You aren't reacting."

"No, I'm not."

"Is a movie a more important priority than your need to be with me?" Sherlock asked, uncharacteristically unsure and genuinely afraid. "Is that the way a relationship works?"

John blinked into those electric blue eyes, the kind that pierced his soul with honesty and, more recently, love. Something in his chest twitched at the vulnerability, twitched and promptly died.

"No, no of course not. I'm just... tired. Really Sherlock, you kept me up all night with your experiments and I couldn't sleep and it's just been a long day in surgery and..."

His voice died off at the look of complete and utter hurt.

"For God's sake! That _look..._ Grab the lube."

As Sherlock pounced off of him to his bedroom, John watched the nicely fitted trousers hug his shapely legs, tongue dragging slightly over his lips. Maybe, just this once, indulging his favourite consulting detective instead of Princess Bride wasn't such a bad idea.

Not a bad idea at all.


End file.
